Giudicare
by Frantik
Summary: It was silly to think that it was the death of one man that began it all. That was stupid, self-centered. Childish. No, what really began it was life - life that was never his, life and lives that he so wanted to protect. /mafia!AU, angst angst angst.


**A/N: **Props go out to my beta,** zara2148**, who decided to step up to the plate and beta this monster of a fic. Thanks again, my friend!

**Giudicare****.**

_v. (Italian) to judge, try; convict, pass sentence; repute, deem, consider, think, find, rate, regard._

_

* * *

_

**March 2****nd****, 2019.**

It wasn't as if he hadn't known something like this would happen one day. It was…inevitable, honestly. Inevitable. But he'd tried to _run, _god, he'd tried so hard, he ran so far, to another part of the world, led by the hand of his mother as they _ran, they were always running_. His mother, so caring, his first vivid memory of her being her face contorted as she cried, cried softly next to him on a plane as he asked "Where are we going?" and she would answer that they were going far, far away. So far away. Keep safe, always keep safe. They were always keeping safe.

_But it was running,_ he thought, now, twenty years later and sitting alone in his Los Angeles office, pen idle in his hand as he stared vacantly at a case file, tauntingly blank on his desk. _We were running, right, Mom? We were such cowards._

He eyes kept sneaking glances sideways, flickering at the newspaper haphazardly splayed along the corner of his desk. Multiple papers, actually. _The Los Angeles Times _sported a bold headline half hidden by a more foreign paper on top of it. _Il Quotidiano della Calabria _was the title of the tabloid, and the foreign words swarm in his vision and automatically rearranged, translated, as did the beginnings of the top headline -

- and he sighed, annoyed at his own inability to _focus,_ this case was far more important than anything else, he had warded off sleep for a good three hours _just _so he could finish.

…but somehow, he knew that wasn't really the case.

Maybe it was grief.

Or maybe it was _terror._

Between the two of them, he wasn't sure which he preferred.

* * *

**March 24****th****, 2019.**

Ten days. Miles Edgeworth sighed with an odd mixture of relief and frustration as he neatly tucked in the cover flap of the sixth case file on his desk, lifting it gently to stack it on top of the five others balancing precariously one on top of the other. It had taken him _ten days_ to not only complete the trials of State v. Alba and State v. Yew, but to compile the investigation reports of all four cases he'd solved the prior week. Agent Lang had been oddly supportive with this, having come in during the days of the trial to aid in the completion of the investigation reports (considering his large role in the latter two, it was actually something Miles had expected) when Miles was too pressed for time to work on them without collapsing. If he were honest with himself, Miles would have to begrudgingly admit that the company of the other man wasn't altogether unpleasant, even if they were still on…rather awkward terms, to be generous about it.

As he thought this, patting the top of his stack with satisfaction, a rough knock sounded on his door and Miles sighed again, brows furrowing automatically at the intrusion. "Come in."

"Hey, Mr. Prosecutor." The door was shouldered open by none other than Lang himself, a cheap styrofoam cup of what Miles knew now to be barley tea in one hand, a rather hefty expanding folder tucked under the opposite arm. "Looks like you finally got all your sheep back in their pasture, yeah?"

"Something to that effect." Miles was less bothered by the fact that he could understand Lang's metaphors now without even trying than he was by that folder the Interpol agent was carrying. He eyed it warily. Lang noticed, and only grinned in response, letting out a bark of laughter and settling himself with ease into the rolling chair he'd brought up on the first day he'd invaded Miles's office.

"You look a bit on edge there, Mr. Edgeworth. Worried about this little puppy here?" Lang had moved the dull gray folder from under his arm onto his lap, patting it in a motion not unsimilar to what Miles had done to his case files moments before. It was a bit unnerving.

Miles only continued to eye the file, brows furrowing as the insignia on it seemed to glower up at him, stark and instantly recognizable. A world surrounded by ivy and cruxed with a sword - "I am _worried_, as you so put," he said curtly, crossing his arms over his chest, "Because I cannot fathom as to why you would be sauntering in here with an _Interpol_ case file in your hands. It seems a bit…_negligent_, if I can be honest."

"Subtlety is _not_ one of your finer points, Mr. Edgeworth, but that's beside the point, isn't it?" Miles could have sworn Lang _winked _at that, and his nose wrinkled in distaste at the thought before being promptly distracted by the folder being slid towards him. He hesitated, giving it a look that one would give a rearing snake, not sure what the man opposite him was implying.

"…really, Agent Lang?"

"Oh, _really_, Mr. Edgeworth." Lang's expression quirked into that wolfish grin of his, leaning forward on his elbows to rest his chin on twined hands. "A good, juicy case for you, straight from the ICPO itself. Just waitin' for you to sink your teeth into it."

"…and the ICPO _itself _has given me jurisdiction to investigate this, ah, 'juicy case?'" Miles raised an eyebrow in disbelief, but nevertheless, he tentatively reached forward to pull the gray folder towards him, unraveling the string binding it closed and carefully extracting the first page.

A guilty look masked Lang's face and he whistled, in a faux imitation of innocence. "Well, not _exactly," _he cooed, turned back to Miles and letting that easy grin slide back onto his face, "but they're not the ones who caught themselves the leader of an international smuggling ring, yeah?" He gestured in that odd manner of his as Miles read, a dubious expression growing on the prosecutor's face. "I figured this would be in your area of expertise."

"…these are in Italian," Miles muttered, brows furrowing further as he continued to flick through the papers, newspaper clipping after newspaper clipping, all dotted with one significant name - Nathaniel. To each article, there was a rough English translation attached, but being fluent in the language, Miles didn't need them to notice another word that bolded itself from the rest. _La Famiglia. _The Family. "These are about the Mafia."

Lang grinned. "Observant today, aren't you?"

"A recent killing tied to the Mafia." Miles tapped a finger on his forearm, eyes closed in thought as the information churned in his head. "…and?"

Lang quirked an eyebrow of his own, giving Miles a mildly offended expression. "And? Whaddya mean, "and"?"

"The Mafia are…an unwelcome presence, certainly, but it's not as if I can _do_ anything about it," Miles scorned, closing the case file with a swift motion. "Business as usual for those in your organization, but certainly not my problem."

"…once again, Mr. Edgeworth, you spot the wolves but miss the pack." Lang pinched the bridge of his nose with the pads of his fingers and almost growled, leaning forward dangerously to tap the file with one finger, tilting his head slightly as he eyed Miles, who instinctively leaned away. "If this were normal business, you don't think I'd be running to you with my tail between my legs, wouldn't you think?"

Miles curled his lip. This _was_ true, really. Cautiously, he pawed the file open one more and warily scanned the front page over again. It was an obituary, of a man who looked to be in his late fifties, possibly early sixties. Small-framed reading glasses, and graying black hair that stuck out everywhere in a haphazard style that rang a certain, somewhat unwelcome bell in Miles's head. Blue eyes. Dark blue. A powerful expression, determined and _oh so familiar._

The name. Nathaniel. This was the man that was killed, killed by The Family, and-

His name was fully printed in the obituary. Only here. No where else did it mention that his full name was Nathaniel Wright.

Nathaniel _Wright._

Miles eyes shot up to stare, wide-eyed, at Lang, who was watching with a grim expression. "_No."_

"Oh, _yes_, Mr. Prosecutor," Lang replied sourly, crossing his arms and regarding Miles with a sardonic grin. "Get what I mean when I say this might be a bit of a special interest case?" He paused, reaching forward to paw through the files, now all business as Miles watched on numbly. "Mr. Wright - senior, that is - he wasn't an ordinary man either, no. Big business man, ran a clinical services facility in Calabria and had some pretty prominent offices scattered about southern Italy. Big in politics." He tugged out one paper from the middle of the mix, tapping it's headline with a sharp nail. "They're calling it assassination. Mr. Wright wasn't _too_ big, but he was big enough."

"_No,_ Agent Lang. I am not getting involved with this." Miles's blood felt like ice. Nathaniel _Wright. Wright Wright Wright._

"Really?" Lang quirked a sly grin, resting his chin on interlaced hands once more, peering up at the prosecutor with that predatory look and Miles instinctively shrinked away again, "Because to me, Mr. Prosecutor, it looks like you already are."

* * *

It was barely crowning three o'clock in the afternoon when Phoenix jerked his head up to stare warily at his office door. He'd…okay, he'd been taking a nap, but really, he was pretty sure that he right well deserved it, considering the terrible lack of sleep he'd been having the past week or so. The knock came again, steady and even, if but a little harder. Urgent.

He sighed and rubbed sleep from his eyes, wearily getting to his feet and trotting over to the door. He paused, mussing a hand through his hair and grimacing at how haphazard his usual, neat spikes were, and cautiously opened the door. The chain was still attached, so it only opened about an inch. "Wright and Co., er, how may I hel-"

"Wright."

-it took Phoenix's newly awake mind a good few seconds to process that Miles Edgeworth was indeed on his doorstep, and he blinked rapidly, owlishly. The prosecutor looked…grim, to be generous, and there was an air about him that put Phoenix on the defensive. He wasn't here for an idle chat - not that he ever was, really, but that was beside the point. "Uh, hey, Edgeworth."

* * *

"Wright," Edgeworth echoed, nodding slightly in greeting. "I was hoping you'd let me in sometime within the next century, if you would please."

"Right, yeah - one second, the chain tends to stick." He disappeared behind the door, and Miles arched an eyebrow at the noncommittal grunts and ominous rattling that followed, only to be greeted with a fully open door and a sheepishly grinning Phoenix only moments later. "Come in."

Miles did, hesitantly, feeling woefully out of place in his rival's…drab workspace. The couch to his left looked as if it had a body print left in the leather - had Wright been taking a nap? - and he couldn't help but snort at the thought as he seated himself unceremoniously onto it. Wright moved to take a seat behind his desk, only to hesitate and turn to Miles. "You, uh, want anything to drink?"

"No, thank you."

Wright shrugged, and crossed the last few feet to seat himself behinds his desk. He leaned his elbows forward and interlaced his hands, giving Miles a look that was half curious and all wary. "What's this about, then, Edgeworth?" he asked, hints of caution coloring his voice.

Miles hesitated, reaching into his briefcase - which he had placed beside him on the couch - to fiddle idly with the corner of the dull gray Interpol folder, biting his lower lip and furrowing his brow. True, he trusted Wright - and it wasn't as if he was an uninvolved party - but he still felt guilty for showing a civilian what he only assumed to be classified information.

…but, really, this wasn't anything new. Thinking back on the past three years, he'd actually helped the man opposite him quite a lot. Far too much, in retrospect, but it wasn't as if he _regretted_ it. Not with all the criminals they successfully put behind bars. And now, it should be even easier, he thought. They were…well, they weren't _friends_, in the truest sense of the word. There was still too much stark awkwardness in their relationship, too much wondering, shared history, betrayals and not-quite-forgiveness. It was _weird_. Weird in a way that Miles was comfortable with…more or less.

"Earth to Edgeworth?" Miles snapped out of his mental reverie in an instant, blinking at Wright with an apologetic look behind his eyes. Wright was giving him a somewhat worried look, now, obviously put off by Miles's temporary lapse into brooding.

"Sorry."

"No, it's alright," was the somewhat pensive response, a quizzical look replacing the earlier worry. "Er…what were you thinking about?"

…the honest answer would have been _you_, but even Miles knew that wouldn't sound _quite_ right if spoken aloud, so instead, he shrugged, boldly reaching into his briefcase and tugging the gray folder from it's confines. "This."

Wright leaned forward curiously as Miles flicked the band off the file and eased it open, picking a choice page from it and...hesitating, once more, not sure how to go about this without seeming insensitive. In the end, he merely shrugged and handed the paper over to Wright, who took it with an eagerness that made something in Miles's chest clench.

-especially when he saw the man's face darken, as if something had slammed closed behind his eyes, that doorway that was always open, inviting, giving his eyes that honest look that made everything he did seem so damn _endearing._ "Edgeworth, _no."_

Miles smirked, glancing sideways. Hadn't he said that same thing to Lang only hours before? "I'm afraid I'm under no obligation to follow orders from you, Wright," he answered, curt. "If you would be willing to humor me, however, any information you could provide would be most helpful."

Wright was eying him with an expression that one might give someone with two heads, and Miles quirked an eyebrow and crossed his arms across his chest. "Problem, Wright?"

"Uh, yeah, _lots."_ The man opposite him was clutching the paper – which was the obituary from a large Catazaro newspaper, _Giornale di Calabria – _with white hands, emotions flashing across his face faster than Miles could decipher. "Edgeworth, you can't do this."

"You can read it, then?" Miles had taken the time to remove the English translations from a select few of the articles – the most important ones, and the obituary – less of a test of Wright's knowledge of the language than for his own comfort. The less people who had the potential to discover what he was doing, the better.

"I...yeah." Wright swallowed nervously, scanning the obituary with a slightly sick expression on his face. "Dad taught me a bit when I was younger, and I took classes in college."

"You were close to your father, then?"

"No, no." Wright waved a hand dismissively, looking pained. Miles felt like kicking himself in the balls, but that would have to wait. He _needed_ information, and damn it all if he wasn't going to get it straight from the horses mouth. "Not after Mom and I moved, no."

Miles raised an eyebrow. "Moved?"

Wright shrugged. "Yeah. When I was six. She...they weren't getting along. And mom wanted to come to America. Big opprotunities here, right?" He grinned at that, nostalgic painting his face tender, and Edgeworth couldn't help the feeling that he was intruding on something private.

"I...see."

Miles knew what he should ask next. It was on the tip of his tongue, but...he didn't want to offend Wright, if it wasn't true. And if it was...he wasn't sure if he wanted to get involved. "...Wright."

"Hm?" The man had been staring at the paper, expression unreadable, but he looked back up at Edgeworth with a curious – but still pained – expression. "Yeah?"

"Do you know..." the prosecutor hesitated, clearing his throat and forcing his gaze ion Wright to remain steady. "That is, were you aware of any...possible involvment your father may have had with certain criminal organizations?"

Wright stared at him, his blue eyes that were usually so easily read glittering like hard sapphires, somewhat dazzling in an odd way that made Miles blink with embarassment. Then, the man answered evenly, "No. Not that I know, at least." He shrugged again. "Remember we...we weren't close."

Miles nodded. Now that the main issue was out of the way, he felt a gnawing sense of guilt in the pit of his stomach. Even if Wright insisted that they weren't close, his father has left this world less than a month ago. The wound must have still been sore, raw, and Miles had probed it unceremoniously with his needling questions. This wasn't new – he'd had to interview sobbing widows and the like plenty of times before – but the fact that it was _Wright_, a person who was slowly becoming something like a _friend_...it made him feel like an asshole, to be blunt about it.

He bit his bottom lip nervously, looking away. Those sapphires were still locked on him, and Wright's stare was making him prickle with unease. "I apologize. This can't be easy for you, I'm sure."

"It's fine."

"It is _not_ fine." Miles forced himself to wrench his gaze back to the man opposite him, and was relieved to see thatWright's eyes had taken a softer look to them, surprised at Miles's retort. He sighed, unease melting to be replaced with...an almost fond feeling for the attorney. Concern. It was as foreign as it was pleasent, human. He offered what he hoped was a comforting, if but a bit sardonic, smile. "Regardless of closeness, he was your father. I am sorry for your loss."

Wright looked bewildered, as if he was mentally fumbling for words to respond to Miles's unprovoked act of kindness. "It really is fine. I mean..." He rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish, smiling gratefully at Miles despite his protests. "...thanks, Edgeworth."

"No need to thank me."

Wright shrugged, and the two settled into what would have been a comfortable silence if the two men weren't so painfully _awkward _with each other, until Wright broke it, uneasy. "Edgeworth, I really don't want you to do this."

"Hm?" Miles tilted his head forward, ever so slightly, inviting the man to continue.

"Well, I mean...Dad was killed by the Mafia." Wright rolled the last word off his tongue warily, as if saying it would provoke an unwelcome response of some sort, furrowing his brow – only to shrug it off moments later and give Miles a steady look. "If you get involved, Edgeworth..."

"I am quite aware of the risks involved, Wright," Miles responded curtly, smirking with feigned confidence and folding his arms across his chest once more. In reality, he was touched by the attorney's concern, but damned if he wasn't prideful and would never let Wright know. "However, if you do recall, I am _quite_ used to taking risks."

"But—"

"_But,_ Wright, I will agree that if this were a normal case, I would, in all likelyhood, not take the risk." Miles stood up, pacing over to Wright's desk and gently placing the folder in front of the man, who tilted his head up to hold the prosecutor's gaze. "However."

"...however?"

"Wright, you became an attorney...for my sake." The words were heavy, laden with a debt that could never be repaid, and if Wright's surprised expression was anything to go by, they were as unexpected to him as they were to Miles. He hadn't meant for it to come out sounding as _significant _as it did, but it wasn't as if he could back off now. "You took everything I knew and shattered it to pieces."

"Yeah, sorry about that, by the way."

They both chuckled, and it was genuine, really, even though the wounds reopened by that trial two years ago still brought pain to Miles's expression. "Don't be. Because regardless, you were able to discover who it was that killed my father." Miles paused, retireving the large file from Wright's desk and backing away slightly, fixing the attorney with a fierce look he could only remember giving the other man in court.

This time, however, Miles knew that there was no malice in his expression. He could feel only _determination, _pooling in his stomach and sending a pulsing heat roaring in his veins, strong and proud, pure_._ Wright looked stunned.

"...and I would like to do the same for you."


End file.
